A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery #1)(78)

As she nearly stumbled again, the cogs in her brain spun, analyzing him, assessing him. His confidence was building. He was getting cocky. Perhaps getting away from safety was the way to beat him. Cocky, strong men often made mistakes. He remembered her as a small, weak fourteen-year-old girl. But twenty years had passed. She’d grown; she’d learned. All she had to do was lean on his self-confidence, wait for one little slip.

“Didn’t see me following you, bitch? I’ve been on your tail all day. An FBI agent would have noticed. But you aren’t an agent, are you, Dr. Bentley?”

She didn’t answer, kept walking, her mind sharpening. That was what had triggered the warning bells in her brain earlier. He had been following her cab.

“Got my envelopes? I left them for you as soon as I found out you were in town. I thought it would be a nice way of saying hello to an old friend.”

“You could’ve just called.”

He laughed, a strained, twisting laugh, familiar and chilling at once. He then shoved her forcefully onward.

The ringing in her ears faded away. Her stumbles were more for show now than actual missteps, the weakness in her limbs an act. She took in a deep breath, inhaling the clear evening air, waiting for that blade to move an inch away, for that hand to let go, for anything to change.

He leaned close to her ear, his hot breath on her cheek. “It wasn’t here, you know, where I took her. It was a bit farther.”

“Who, Pamela?” she asked.

“Don’t play dumb, bitch. You were never dumb. I still remember her whimpering under me. Struggling. She was strong, Zoe. She worked out. It didn’t help her. Not one bit.”

“Are you taking me to the same place?” she asked. Buy time. More time.

“No need,” he said, his voice lower, hungrier. “Here is far enough. Get down.”

“What?”

“On your knees.”

“Glover, you’re making a—”

“Now, damn it!”

Slowly and carefully she got down on her knees, her body tensing up. There was no more time. She had to act now.

The blade disappeared from her neck. She began to twist, her fist clenching, preparing to smash into his flabby, fat stomach.

And then something looped around her neck and tightened hard. The effect was instantaneous, her next breath of air out of reach. Something made strange sounds. It was her; she was wheezing, coughing, trying to get some air into her system. Her sight dimmed as her fingernails clutched at the thing around her neck, trying to pull it free, desperate for that one thing: air.

She didn’t see her life flashing in front of her eyes. Instead, she saw the pictures she had looked through when she’d managed to get the case files from the Maynard Police Department. Of Beth and Clara and Jackie, their naked bodies submerged in water, a tie wrapped around their throats. This was what had happened to them.

Blood pounded in her ears, and beyond it, she could hear the heavy breathing of the man behind her, his fingers already pawing at her zipper, trying to pull her pants down, his throat making angry growls. She knew that if she could only focus, she might get out of this alive. She was sharp; he was consumed by lust. But she had no air, and all she wanted was to breathe. Her mouth opened and closed now, gasping desperately, trying to inhale. She tried grabbing the hand on her pants, the only part of him within reach, but she could do nothing. Everything faded, her fingers slack, hands dropping.

And the noose loosened. She could take a small, impossibly tiny breath. The world swam into focus. His fingers were in her pants, scraping her left thigh. He laughed to himself, the same high-pitched, maddened giggle that she had heard all those years ago. He was giving her air on purpose. He wanted her alive for this.

Too self-confident. Too cocky.

She threw her head back as far as she could. She had hoped to hit him in the stomach, but instead she heard a crunch and a roar of pain. He had crouched behind her to get her pants off, and she had just smashed his nose. The noose loosened completely as he stumbled back, and she drew in a wheezing breath, already moving. She leaped forward, not really able to stand yet but strong enough to crawl away and roll onto her back, see what Glover was doing.

He stood above her, blood streaming down his face, rage in his eyes, his mouth twisted in an animal snarl. He lunged at her, roaring, and she lifted one knee, kicked as hard as she could, hitting him . . . somewhere. Chest, stomach, she couldn’t really tell. It didn’t stop him. He was on her, flexing his fingers into a fist and punching her, pain bursting as his fist hit her cheek.

Her hand clutched at something hard—a rock; she swung up, the rock hitting him in his face, his broken nose. He fell back, howling. This time she wouldn’t crawl away. She pushed herself forward onto him, swinging her free hand, fingernails raking at his bloody face, searching for his eyes.

He screamed and shook her off. She rolled and felt a hot, sharp pain in her hip. Her hand flew down to the searing flesh, feeling blood pulsing between her fingers. Something had cut her.

The knife. He had dropped the knife when he’d choked her, and she’d just rolled onto the blade.

Her eyes searched frantically on the ground, noticing a glint. There.

She leaped at it, her fingers tightening in a hard grip around the knife’s handle. Glover turned his eyes on her, looking more like a beast than a man.

Almost like an actual monster.